Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

01-10-25

7:20am

On the fourth floor of one of the many haphazardly assembled dorms on campus, six doors down from the stairwell entrance, an alarm goes off. It bleats through the room just as it does every Friday morning at this time, blessing its two residents with the familiar reminder that once again, a new day has begun.

The sound of the clock lasts for longer than it should until long pale fingers slam down the snooze button, having worn from years of similar abuse. The hand rests there for no more than a few seconds before sliding along the wall, in search of something to grab onto. It eventually brushes against a bulky plastic device hanging from its hook, purposefully placed there for mornings like this.

Its owner groggily sits up in bed, a sleep mask still clinging to his face. He tugs it off, eyes squeezed shut as if the light might burn. The object in his hand—a thick pair of goggles that were akin to a steampunk aesthetic—gets placed over his head and covers his eyes. He tightens the strap in the back and finally releases the tension on his eyelids.

He yawns and sighs, smacking his lips together and scrunching up his nose from the whiplash of his morning breath. One leg slips free of the sheets, then the other, feet finding their way into slippers simultaneously. He stands, stretching an arm overhead, and trudges toward the bathroom.

While the price for this type of dorm was more expensive from having his own toilet and sink, financial concerns were never a worry to a guy like him. Born in an already wealthy family background, he had advantage with first pick of almost every school he applied to. Why he bothered with the acceptance from a lousy low reputation university with minimal funding is a completely different story. 

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror. Even without visible eyes, his exhaustion is apparent. Messy white hair that was long overdue for a trim frames his face while a loose t-shirt drapes over him like a hospital patient. The medically customized goggles attached to his face, designed to manage his severe photophobia, serve as a quiet reminder of the hand he’s been dealt.

And Gojo Satoru starts his day.

With a thick layer of spearmint toothpaste on his toothbrush, Satoru spends his first three minutes of his bathroom time brushing his teeth with one hand while the other to relieve his bladder into the toilet. He hums a new Vocaloid song he listened to last night, the best part scratching his brain every time he hits the notes. He flosses and rinses his mouth thoroughly, giving a toothy smile in the mirror and satisfied with the state of his pearly whites.

“Looking good.” He praises himself.

Having blindingly white teeth is important to him. Even if he doesn’t fuss much over his appearance, Satoru knows the stark color of his hair will always be contrasted to his smile, and even the faintest yellow tint would ruin the balance.

Can’t have that happening, he has someone he needs to impress.

At his closet, he rummages through freshly laundered clothes to find his favorite gray hoodie. He doesn’t bother changing the shirt he slept in, just grabs a clean pair of jeans and underwear, sliding into both with minimal effort. A fresh pair of cotton socks follows, pulled on as he hops lightly from one foot to the other before plopping down into the gaming chair he’d spent way too much money on.

The sun spills through the blinds in bright streaks, highlighting the dust motes in the air as if they had any significance at all. Satoru reaches for them, tugging down one of the slats to let in a controlled sliver of morning light.

Bingo. Right on time.

The clock on his desk now reads 7:34am, and Satoru pulls open one of the drawers to take out a pair of binoculars—small compared to his hands and clearly made for a much younger age group. He plants them against the lenses of his goggles, careful not to press too hard as he parts through the blinds.

Outside, his gaze trails the familiar route of a fellow student.

Long obsidian hair with a bun tied in the back that Satoru could only dream of playing with. A thick black choker with dulled spikes and chains that were begging to be pulled on. Torn black jeans, ripped at the knees despite the frigid temperature. And what seems to be a new leather jacket with a furry interior for insulation. Satoru only assumes it’s new because he’s never seen it before, appearing rugged enough to conclude it wasn’t freshly bought. 

Thrifted maybe?

Satoru breathes in deep and holds it there until he can no longer can, exhaling with a wavering smile.

“Good morning, Suguru.” He whispers.

Yes, this was his typical Friday routine: wake up, have some private bathroom time, throw on whatever doesn’t smell, and spy on his childhood best friend—who also happens to be, without a doubt to Satoru, the love of his life.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Shuffling breaks his yearning from less than five feet away, the sound of sheets rustling on a single size futon, looking very much out of place from the semi-cozier bed that Satoru woke up on. 

From the pile of blankets, a girl with a short brunette bob and a mole under her right eye peeks out. She’s sporting a total bedhead, her smile still half-asleep.

“Jesus…” She says, sleep evident in her voice. “You are so gross. What would Geto think if he knew his best friend was creeping on him every chance he gets?”

Satoru doesn’t react. Not at first. He waits until Suguru turns a corner and disappears from view before snapping his head back with a scowl. His eyes are never visible due to the opaque black lenses of his goggles, but it was unmistakable the way he was glaring daggers into her.

“Shut up, Shoko. I told you if you’re going to sneak around and live here, you need to keep your judgement to a minimum.”

“I’m not being judgmental,” Shoko quips, sitting up. Her bedsheet slips off of her to reveal her shirt with a graphic design that was now too faded to make out. “I’m being honest. You’re a stalker. And don’t say that, you’re too sweet to kick me to the curb.”

Satoru scoffs and puts his binoculars back in the desk drawer where they came from, spinning his chair towards her. He crosses his arms along with resting one leg over the other.

“I’m not a stalker, I’m a good friend. I just like checking in on him from time to time. Make sure he’s okay, you know?” He gets up and pulls his backpack from under his desk, slinging it over his shoulder and grabbing his headphones that were hung around his desk lamp. “Also, I would kick you out, but I look for merit in all my choices. I’m just waiting to find a favor to ask for in return.”

“Geez, what are you, a loan shark?” She jokes, flopping back down. “How awful. Making a poor girl, who can’t afford a dorm and refuses to do a forty-minute commute, owe you a favor. If it were anyone else, I never would’ve asked. Shouldn’t my trust in you be enough?”

Messing with him was her forte. 

Ieiri Shoko and Satoru had met during their second year of university, after Shoko’s girlfriend accidentally bumped into him and sent his boba crashing to the ground, ruining one of his favorite sweaters in the process. Shoko spotted the commotion from across the street and hurried over just as the two started yelling at each other about who needed to “watch where they were going.”

After remedying the situation, Shoko dragged her significant other away, and Satoru was left cursing to himself and doing his best to dab off purple liquid that would eventually stain his clothes. 

In a state of overthinking the possibility of Suguru stumbling across a viral video of him acting like some sidewalk incel, Satoru spent the next week returning to that same spot at the same time every day—waiting for them to pass by again so he could apologize, no matter how much he hated the idea.

When he finally caught them, they laughed in his face and any fear he had of becoming some internet sensation dissipated. 

He doesn’t consider them his friends... but having them around from time to time wasn’t too bad either. Still, his bad manners led him to call them by their first names, despite not wanting to be all that close.

“I could care less about your trust. Remind me why you can’t stay with Utahime again? She doesn’t even dorm! Doesn’t she live in one of those luxury apartments in Toyosu? That’s only, what—seven kilometers from here?”

“Six and a half. And I’ve already told you this,” Shoko cozies up to her pillow and closes her eyes as she answers. “Utahime’s folks are very traditional. She can’t even bring me to her place, let alone introduce me as her girlfriend. Once we graduate and land decent jobs, we’ll get our own place. Then I’ll stop mooching off you. Deal?”

Satoru presses his lips into a thin line.

“Sure. That’s only over a year from now. Sounds great.” He slides his headphones over his ears. “Make sure you get up for your first class this time. I know this isn’t the type of place that cares about attendance, but maybe some pride in yourself wouldn’t hurt too bad every once in a while.”

Without caring to hear what else she would have to say, Satoru steps into some slip-on flats in the cubby by the door and slinks out, leaving no more time for conversation. He races up the hall and rushes down the stairs, way too eager to get somewhere.

He had to get to class, and he had to get there before Suguru did.

The moment he steps outside, a sharp chill greets him like a slap. Satoru yanks his hood up, tucking his hands into the font pocket as his breath fogs the air in pale, fleeting clouds. Instead of taking the same route Suguru does, he veers off toward a longer path—a winding stretch that snakes around the back of most buildings and cuts through a small patch of leafless trees. It’s easily twice the distance, riddled with uneven ground that make his calves ache halfway through, nevertheless he pushes on. The wind bites at his cheeks, but he hardly notices because here’s only one thing that matters right now; he needs to get there first.

He whips out his phone for a time check.

7:43am.

Built over Sarue Park in Koto-Ku, Jujutsu Technical University was nothing short of what could almost be considered a community college. They had no notable alumni, a drop out rate of 43%, low club funding, and minimal athletics offered. The only impressive feat that puts the school on the charts is its highly acclaimed gymnastics team—specifically, the men’s division. No, they couldn’t afford new equipment, and their gym wasn’t anything too impressive, but the coach for the team was known for his many Olympic feats in his younger days, having only retired from the sport at the age of thirty and deciding to raise a team of underdogs like he has for the past fifteen years. 

Satoru hated this school. He hated everything about it. Well, everything but one thing. And that’s why he’s so damn excited right now. Sweat starts to build up under his arms with the workout he was getting from moving around at such a pace, but he couldn’t care less if he finds himself a little unsavory. 

It was all for Suguru. 

Everything was for Suguru. 

Sure, they haven’t spoken in years, but that mattered little to him. Even a glimpse was just enough, all he needed to satiate his desire for any sort of contact with his best friend. 

He wasn’t a stalker, he wasn’t. Why would he have to be? He already knows everything about him, so there wouldn’t be anything to stalk. This was just a weekly observation—a check-in as he liked to call it, so his behavior isn’t anywhere near aggressive enough to be considered stalking, right?

…

Right.

The class building Satoru is heading to comes into view, but so does Suguru. His heart rate picks up and he dashes around the building to get in through a different entrance. 

This is it, the highlight of his week, and he will be damned if he fucks it up. 

Pushing through the heavy metal door, he runs up the staircase next to it by three flights, ignoring those who stop to stifle a giggle at him. He was impossible not to recognize, he stood out far too well. From the jarringly unnatural color of his hair to the headgear and obvious avoidance of other students, he was an easy target to laugh at on occasion; a campus celebrity famous for nothing but the purpose of being the butt of the joke. 

Satoru knows what they all think of him, and it never bothered him in the slightest. It had been like that his whole life—a black sheep singled out from the herd, but a sheep’s worth isn’t chartered by the color of its wool. All that was on this ram’s mind was being one of the first in attendance to class, to patiently wait in the front row seat he had assigned himself. 

The irony was at an all time high for him to have such a complex disability with his eyes and to be taking a photography class. Satoru’s perception of light and color is far too enhanced, and his ophthalmologist once said his rods and cones were “a phenomenon of their own,” an anomaly so rare it shouldn’t exist. Light burns sharper for him, colors pulse too vividly, and without his specialized goggles, the world becomes a blinding and oversaturated mess. The lenses he wears are engineered to his eyes alone, muting the harshness, dulling the color, toning down reality into something manageable.

So it was beyond strange that he bothered to take a class like this, something that completely contradicts such a crucial part of his identity. 

It wasn’t as if he needed the extra credits, and it sure wasn’t as if it had anything to do with his major—that being astrophysics. But if anything, it definitely had nothing to do with what he saw last semester. Absolutely had no correlation to Suguru's Instagram story. Zero attribution to viewing a photo he posted of his dorm roommate blowing O’s at the camera, flipping it off like a rebel with something to prove. And it incontestably wasn’t because in the corner of said photo, Suguru’s laptop was open to his class registry, giving Satoru the perfect opportunity to learn his schedule for the current semester.

That certainly was not why, because Satoru isn’t a stalker, or a weirdo, or an obsessive creep. He just wants to spend time with his best friend.

He swings the door open to Photography 100, relieved to see that Suguru has yet to arrive. He takes long strides over to his seat with a giddy grin, ignoring the usual looks he was receiving from other students that had arrived before him.

They can stare all they want, I’m used to it. I’m about to indulge in my own personal high and none of them will ruin that for me.

Satoru slides into his chair and takes his phone out to check the time again. It reads 7:58am, two minutes before class starts, two minutes until his momentary high, two minutes until–

The door pushes open again, another figure stepping through. His tall frame that stands almost as high as Satoru, wavers through the front of the room and stops right at Satoru’s desk table to turn and pass by him. 

Satoru uses his goggles to his advantage and looks up at him discreetly without having to turn his head.

Suguru’s eyes are ridden with clouds and detachment, not at all filled with that playful sparkle he used to see in them. A long time ago, Suguru told him his eyes were purple, and Satoru prays one day he finds out what that looks like.

His skin is a few shades darker than Satoru’s, and he’s sure just one touch would be able to provide enough warmth to last him the rest of winter. In the summer, sweat would always drip down the back of Suguru’s neck when he used to prefer his hair tied up. Satoru definitely took that sight for granted.

There is a thick layer of eyeliner on his waterline that does little to emphasize his perfect almond monolids. The dull sheen of his piercings was always a drawn feature, even if Satoru can’t see the way they shine. The dumbbell he has at the mid tail of his right eyebrow compliments the two rings he has on his other one. There’s a double hoop hooked on his left nostril, which does little to distract from the snake bites with pointed ends that sit nicely on the plumpness that is his lower lip. His ears were symmetrical in black gauges, and pierced up on nearly every spot except for his rook and tragus, his helixes being the most remarkable with a Chinese dragon looping around the edges. The rest of his jewelry were from rings that adorned almost all ten fingers, paired with the black paint of his nail polish that dressed his perfectly clipped fingernails.

He may have looked like a no-good punk in the eyes of some, but to many others, his face is the ideal definition of androgynous beauty standards—beautiful as a man, and handsome if he were a woman. Then again, his bad habits and rumors of getting around never made him seem all that promising in character either. 

Whispers trailed after him like cigarette smoke—the kind that clung to clothes no matter how much you tried to wash out the smell. Some said he’d hooked up with a professor’s son. Others swore they’d seen him leaving a party with three guys at once, sharing lips like they were class notes. And there were few that would even say he was sleeping his way through classes, only getting by with spreading his legs and the skill of his hands.

Satoru, who chose to drown out any conversation that he deemed a waste of time, had some sort of automatic radar for when Suguru was being mentioned in his vicinity. Eating in the food hall, walking between classes, studying in the library… all of them talking about Suguru as if they knew him, as if they could ever know him the way Satoru did.

He never believed a single word of it.

Suguru wasn’t like that. Sure, they may have drifted, and he might have changed a little overtime, but he wasn’t like that. No way. He was smart, thoughtful, mischievous in all the ways that mattered. So for some to refer to him as a common street whore? Absurd. Suguru wasn’t like that. He would know, they’re best friends after all. And if any of it were true, that meant Satoru didn’t know him as well as he thought, and that simply wasn’t possible.

Today, his scent was muskier than usual, and for some reason it turned Satoru off in a way he didn’t quite understand. But he would get over something so trivial and continue to bask in these few seconds of proximity until Suguru made his way to the back of the classroom.

The moment ended just as quickly as it came as Suguru continued to pass him without even a glance. He drops his bag to the floor, slumps down in his seat, and folds his arms on the table, resting his head in them. 

So fucking tired... I can’t keep doing this with him on nights I have morning classes. I’m cutting it close with my attendance record.

Suguru tries to rub the cold from his bare knees, the chill still lingering from when he’d been outside. The bruising has deepened overnight, a dull violet mark against his skin, and he winces before deciding to leave it alone. Lifting his head back up, he finds himself staring at the back of Satoru’s head, analyzing the mess of what he used to know as pristine snowy scape, now an avalanche that traps all who get caught in it.

Satoru needs a haircut.

Not that he would actually tell him that. 

Suguru watches as Satoru drapes his headphones around his neck, not finding it hard to put together that the only time he sees him around campus without those things covering his ears are when he gets close to his vicinity. His obvious begging for any kind of contact was so pathetic that it gave Suguru second-hand embarrassment.

Suguru isn’t oblivious. He’s aware of Satoru’s desperation to be close with him again… what he didn’t know was just how far that obsession really went.

He tells himself that Satoru’s interest is harmless, that it’s just old friendship warped into something too heavy, too clingy. But it’s these Friday mornings when it grates on him, when the air feels thinner with Satoru’s presence closing in on him, begging wordlessly for something Suguru can’t give.

I’m not going to talk to you. Please stop getting your hopes up.

Suguru leans his head back and his vision drifts to the ceiling. The professor starts her class with a reminder that midterm grades have been emailed out to them, but he couldn’t be any less interested in what she had to say. He wanted to close his eyes and drift off into a deep slumber, but the discomfort of his jacket was suffocating.

It was heavy, overbearing, and smelled way too familiar—vomit inducing in fact. Even though it was all he had available this morning, that extreme distaste he has for it wouldn’t allow him to settle enough for a nap. Sure, it was incredibly warm, but Suguru would rather freeze to death than find perfect comfort in it. But it wasn’t as if he had a choice; he could never say no.

Two hours fly in what feels like a blink, and by the time the lights flicker back on, Suguru exhales quietly, collecting his things. The zipper of his bag sounds too loud in the hush of his mind, and for a brief moment, he considers waiting until Satoru leaves first.

But that would mean staying longer. That would mean giving him more time to look.

He lets Satoru have this one small mercy—lets him watch. Lets him have that fleeting moment of illusion that they’re still connected, that there’s still something left to bridge the space between them. It’s the least he can do, really, after all the ways he’s made sure their paths never truly cross. He doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t say a word.

Once Suguru is long gone and out of sight, Satoru smiles to himself again and gets up, putting his headphones back over his ears and presses play without checking what’s queued; it doesn’t matter. The music’s just another wall, a way to muffle the world until the next Friday morning rolls around. 

He tells himself that this is enough. That these small moments, these brief crossings of space and sight, are enough to keep him going.

And as he steps out into the hallway, he weaves through the sea of strangers who purposely avoid his path. Because for a hundred and twenty whole minutes, Geto Suguru had existed in the same room as him—and for Satoru, that’s all that really mattered.

See you next week, Suguru.

Chapter Text

01-11-25

10:28am

Sometimes Satoru gets lost in his own head, but not in the way most people do. His daydreams aren’t just idle conversations with himself or imagined scenarios—more like his entire being drifting somewhere else, lost in a different plane of consciousness.

Everything outside his thoughts feels like chasing a kite just out of reach, an endless search for something he can’t quite name. Being stuck in the role of the distracted daydreamer is frustrating, especially when nothing and no one ever seems to hold his attention. There was never any sort of fulfillment or understanding, being often isolated or misunderstood by those around him, as his preoccupation with his inner world makes it difficult for him to connect with others on a deeper level.

As to why Satoru is so closed off from other people, he isn’t very sure of it himself. It could be his ego telling him that he’s too high above them to bother making a connection, but even he knows that’s not the truth. It’s because he doesn’t want to, and what’s so wrong with that? Why should he have to listen and pretend to be interested in whatever someone has to trifle about? Unless it was about the neverending cosmos, an in depth back and forth on philosophical stances, or Digimon, he really could care less.

Even during class, he can never find himself paying attention, only getting by with stellar grades by doing research on his own time. He only even shows up to his classes to keep himself from falling into a depressive slate that would have him chained to his bed like some recluse.

But now, Satoru sits in the plastic chair of an exam room, rooted to it and staring his ophthalmologist in the eye as if he had listened to all he had to say instead of tuning him out after the first few sentences.

A surgery that could correct my vision? Does it even matter at this point? I’ve lived long enough like this where I’ve gotten used to the disadvantages… Would my quality of life really differ that much?

Satoru notices his doctor has stopped speaking and was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response.

Right. It’s my turn to talk now.

“So- just to be sure, you want me to play lab rat for a new kind of surgery that hasn’t even been perfected yet?” Satoru asked, seemingly unbothered by how rude he comes off as.

His doctor grimaces, always having more than enough of having to deal with his least favorite but most fascinating patient. 

“Gojo-san, your contribution to this would be a huge breakthrough in optometric medicine. Since it would be considered an intrusive experimental procedure, the operation cost would be covered by the medical board. You would no longer have to worry about life with your headgear. Doesn’t that sound like something you would want?”

Satoru stares at him blankly. Is that something he wants?

“No way, your goggles are SO cool! Like you’re a pilot! And I’ll be your copilot, we can fly away from here together, and leave all those jerks in the dust!”

…it’s not something he wants.

“Yeah, no dice. I’m sorry Dr. Nanami, but I seriously can’t see any benefit in this, I’m perfectly fine with the way things are going with my eyes and I don’t need anyone’s hands, or scalpels, or lasers, or whatever you planned on using digging in them.”

“Oh, so you’re visually and audibly impaired?” Kento sighs, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He did a final once over at Satoru’s charts on his clipboard, then unclipping them and handing them towards him. 

The usual ‘doctor to patient’ appropriateness never applied between Kento and Satoru, as Satoru had the stubbornness of a child and Kento had zero tolerance for it. Why Satoru never looked for a new doctor and why Kento never bothered to fire him as a client is a mystery.

“Go on, read it.”

Satoru takes the papers that were served to him and surfs through the charts and diagrams, unable to make sense of them. 

“What is this? What am I looking at? I know I’m a genius and all, but this isn’t really my field of expertise. Don’t just throw shit at me and expect me to understand.”

“Those,” Kento stressed. “Are the results from the electroretinogram we took today, the reason I pulled you in here after your appointment ended.” His face drops from its usual intensity, into something closer to pity. “Gojo-san, your photoreceptors are twice the size they were last month... even if the risk for the procedure is permanent vision loss, I’m afraid you’re already less than a year away from going blind.”

The arrogance drained from Satoru’s face in an instant, replaced by unguarded shock. Kento didn’t have to see his eyes to know they were wider than saucers at the news. He flipped a separate page on his clipboard, pretending not to notice the slow rising fear threading through Satoru’s answer.

“Blind.” He repeats. “I’m going blind.”

“I’m afraid so, yes.” Kento verifies, not keen on delivering the details. “I want to say you might have until the end of August, but even that might be on the far end. The longer you wait to make a final decision, the less likely the procedure will be successful, as I can’t tell you exactly how rapidly of a rate your rods and cones are growing.”

Reality sinks in at that confirmation, and a slowly spreading dread oozes in Satoru’s stomach like an overflowing pit of tar. It’s a thick and hard to swallow pill that the content life he had built up until now with his photophobia had just come crashing down on him.

“...that-” He swallows. “That doesn’t even make sense. You’re joking, right? How is that even possible? Last month you said everything looked the same.” Satoru looks down at the results papers again and tries to ignore how they crinkle in his grip. “Every month you say it looks the same. How could this even…”

Kento shakes his head.

“I can repeat all the tests if you’d like.” He offers, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference. “I can even have colleagues to take a look at you for second opinions, or I can refer you to other doctors I trust. But that won’t change the diagnosis. I’m being completely honest with you, Gojo-san. I’m sorry, I really am.”

It was a bombshell of information, one that didn’t yet explode on impact. His life surrounding his eyes has always been so stagnant, and revolved around one simple thing: loving his best friend. Watching him, waiting for him, making sure he’s safe... how would he be able to do any of that if he’s blind? How will he ever see the color purple?

Satoru doesn’t answer his doctor. He rises from his chair, feet heavy with each step as he leaves the room. Kento keeps his gaze fixed to the floor with having nothing to say that could alleviate him other than,

“Please, just consider having the surgery. It wouldn’t hurt to take the risk.”

But the door clicked shut before he could finish speaking, and Satoru was gone.

7:47pm

If there were any days of the week where he wasn’t thinking about Suguru, it was while burning calories and expelling sweat at the gym. Satoru enjoyed working out as his only way to not get lost in the clouds by connecting with his body. The heavy breathes and burnout that comes with exercise is invigorating, fulfilling him with him that he has perfected his body if it was to ever be viewed. 

As he laid arched against the bench press, sweat pooled on his back under the tank top he was hiding under a sweatshirt. He was locked in on finishing his set before more thoughts of his impending blindness dragged him down again. He had already been there for two hours longer than he usually would, looking for anything that could distract him from wallowing about such a devastating future.

Gripping the bar firmly, Satoru raises 375lbs up and down at a steady pace, finding it becoming harder to procrastinate going back to his dorm any longer. He’s savoring the sight of the gym ceiling, which was just a barrage of pipage and insulation. It was not totally up to code, but he liked the place. No one looked at him funny, and no one knew who he was—at least, no one from school that is.

Eight months. In less than eight months, I won’t even be able to look at that anymore.

He raises the barbell up again, huffing out.

No more polishing my figures.

Another rep, shakier than the last.

No more grinding on MMO’s.

A final push, this time only meeting halfway, his arms shake vigorously and he grits his teeth.

No more seeing Suguru.

Satoru’s strength falters, his biceps trembling as he tries to lift the bar any higher. The effort drains what little energy he has left and the weight begins to sink, pressing down against his chest until he’s pinned to the bench. He gasps, a sharp sound escaping him as he struggles to roll it off. His face reddens; panic flickers across his features—but only for a moment.

The form of a bodybuilder hovers over him, a shirtless angel with an off-putting scar over his left eye raises the bar in a hurry and sets it on the barbell rest.

Satoru sits up with a gasp while the heavy hand of his savior keeps a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze and signaling for him to take a breath and calm down.

“Gojo, take a breather. I understand wanting to surpass the limits, but you’ve been hanging around here long past your usual hours. I admire your aptitude, but you should hit the showers.”

Satoru raises his foot on the bench and leans his forehead on his knee, running a hand through his sweat slicked hair. He really doesn’t like talking to this guy, but he did kind of just save his ass, so the least he could do is take his advice.

“Yeah, probably. Um, thank you… Todo?” Satoru wasn’t good at remembering names, so it came out as more of a question than an actual thanks.

Aoi waves it off and settles back on his own bench, pulling the towel that hung around his shoulders to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“Don’t thank me, thank Takada-chan. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her influence.”

Satoru still doesn’t bother to look at him, getting up and grabbing his water bottle from the padded floor and heading to the men’s locker rooms.

Delusional weirdo… not that I’m any better.

Once in the locker rooms, Satoru opens up one of the blue steel doors in the line of others that covered the wall. From his gym bag, he grabbed his towel and toiletries which were atop fresh clothes, neatly pressed and folded the way he liked.

Along with those items, he took out a special tool he created himself. He closed his eyes tightly and carefully put his usual headwear in his locker, replacing them with regular swim goggles one would use for a public pool. The only difference being the black acrylic paint he used to cover the inside of the lenses.

Satoru stripped from his sweat drenched attire and tossed them in the bag, then wrapped his towel around his waist to get to the open floored shower room. He trailed his fingertips along the lockers as checkpoints and counted his footsteps, having memorized by now how long it takes to get to the specific washing station he uses.

Once the lockers disappear from his touch, he trusts the groove of the tiles below his feet, and traverses with the care of a ballerino to ensure he does not slip. He stops after thirteen more steps and his hand grazes the wall faucet. Hanging his towel on a hook beside it, he turns the handle to the far right. 

Hot water cascaded down on Satoru, his nerves flaring up to a familiar sensation as he let the heat soothe him. He places his body wash and shampoo on the ground, squirting out a few pumps before lathering his hair—suds not easily visible as they rivaled the color. 

What have I accomplished with being able to see anyways? I would lose my daily pleasures, but have I ever gained anything to begin with? I’m already playing the role of a blind man, I seriously doubt anything would change.

He stops scrubbing his scalp, letting the water rinse it out. Reaching for the other tube next, he squeezes out a generous amount onto his palm and starts with his chest, soaping it up and making his way down to his arms and along his back. His nails subconsciously dig into his skin, leaving thinly made pink streaks on a pale canvas. He finishes washing the rest of his body and stares up at nothing. All he can see is darkness as the running water patters against his goggles.

…no. I’m not playing the role of a blind man. I’m playing the role of a man who can see.

9:12pm

Shuffling down the hallway, Satoru cranes his neck down at an unhealthy angle, eyebrows creasing heavily as he had gotten caught in an argument on an online forum over the latest chapter of a BL manga he had been keeping up with. If there was anything that distracted him from his life turning upside down, it was the romanticized world of unrealistic shojo slop. 

He scoffs at the latest response he received from who he now sees as a virtual nemesis.

[Cyclops_Cat {MOD}] lol ur delusional. a breakup wuz necessary 4 this manga 2 have a good ending. yuichi wuz a toxic bf and lied 2 taka the entire time they were together. he had a million chances 2 tell taka he wuz engaged 2 yoko. i hope he suffers the rest of his life lmao he has 0 redeeming qualities. cheaters deserve this type of shit anyways. actually theyre both $h!t becuz taka never should have gotten involved w/ yuichi 2 begin with when he knew he had a gf.

Satoru bit his lip and began typing away feverishly with his thumbs as he stopped right outside the door of his dorm. He would make one last proclaim to support his view before entering. It was a good thing Satoru had a calm rationale when he got into internet disputes, so he would respond accordingly to this as someone of high maturity would.

[infinity6] Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. First of all, USE PROPER GRAMMAR, IT ISN’T 2007 ANYMORE! YOU SOUND FUCKING STUPID!! Second of all, Yuichi was NOT toxic and he had NO CHOICE other than to keep Takahiro in the dark about his engagement because he was afraid of losing him. He acknowledged he should never have let it go on for this long and the love he felt for Takahiro helped him grow as a person. Do you not have ANY fucking reading comprehension or did you miss the part where Yuichi was LITERALLY just about to tell him until his father

Satoru’s fingers pause on the screen when he hears laughter and chattering voices in his vicinity. Holding his phone to his chest, he whips around back and forth to locate the source, only for it to localize behind one of the doors. 

His door. The door to his dorm. 

He was able to distinguish two female voices. It would seem after almost an entire year of living together, his freeloader had finally gotten comfortable enough to invite her own company, not even bothering to ask him for permission.

Satoru has had enough negative interactions today, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the social aspect of having to deal with another unwelcome guest in his living space.

He fumbled with his keys as he pulled them from his pocket, dropping it and then cursing before picking it up and stabbing it through the keyhole. Swinging the door open with more aggression than he meant to, Satoru saw his “roommate” on her futon with another girl in her lap, giggling and trying to be freed from her grip. 

Shoko had her face buried in her neck and was giving her playful kisses. 

“Utahime, hold still. You’re being fussy.”

“Agh! No! You’re tickling me!”

This was not a display anyone would want to come home to.

Finally at his breaking point, Satoru threw his gym bag full of soiled clothing at them, some of the contents spilling out.

The girls stop their play when they are assaulted as dirty laundry comes barreling down onto them, Utahime pausing and scrunching up her nose at the musty smell it gives off. They didn’t react all too much to Satoru’s entrance, they were used to his dramatics anyways.

Shoko throws him a glance before rolling over onto her back, a smile still present.

“Geez, Gojo. Are you jealous? You could’ve just asked to join.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He retorts, kicking off his shoes and setting them near the door. “It’s just common courtesy to give some heads up if you’re inviting people over- which I really don’t remember allowing, especially while I’m not even fucking here. You can’t just do this shit and not ask me about it first.”

Shoko balls most of the clothes that were thrown at them and stuffs them in the bag, tossing it across over to Satoru’s end of the room. Typically, she would have some clever quip to respond with, but there was something off with Satoru—more than usual. His expressions were typically hard to make out for obvious reasons, but right now he was clearer than a shard of glass in a crystal lagoon.

Utahime sits there out of place, combing her fingers through her hair idly as Shoko rubbed the back of her neck and avoided looking at him directly.

“I mean- Okay, okay, sorry.” She crosses her legs and hunches forward. “It’s not like I brought over strangers, I didn’t think you’d get upset if it was just them. And here I thought this might help you out a bit...”

Satoru crosses his arms and raises a brow.

“Help me out?” he repeats.

Wait, did she say “them”?

From behind the closed bathroom door emits the sound of a flushing toilet, shortly followed by a zipper and the clunkiness of a belt buckle and a running sink. Satoru turned his head to the door and then back at Shoko, holding out open palms and mouthing “What the fuck?!” until the door creaked open.

Satoru stilled. He locks eyes with the man who’s always marathons in his head, who he had been yearning after like a widow for her late husband. 

Suguru only blinked. His attire was similar to yesterday’s, save for the lack of that insufferable leather coat. There was something that stood out greatly in contrast to how he usually looks. Maybe it was the obvious purple dents he had under his eyes, or maybe it was the faded red spots on his neck. Suguru always wore thick chokers, and perhaps the reason wasn’t entirely for aesthetics.

But what really bothered Satoru was his obvious disinterest. Suguru had never looked at him with such... God, he didn’t even know what he could call it. Nonchalance? Apathy? Whatever it was, Satoru wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him right there. Then again, he would not want his last sight to be Suguru looking at him with what he guessed was most likely disdain.

At least, that was how he saw it.

Satoru gave a pathetic wave and straightened his back out.

“...hi, Suguru.”

“Yeah, hi.” A quick response came from Suguru as he side eyes Shoko and Utahime. “I didn’t know this was your dorm.”

Utahime frowns and extends a leg to Shoko, tapping her with her foot. Shoko looks back and they have a silent conversation, no words needing to be said to know the best way to go about this. They go on their phones without saying anything, trying to be polite as if they weren’t going to listen to whatever the two men before them would talk about—if it would be anything at all.

Satoru pinballs between all three of them, wondering what could have possibly been going on before he got here. He could see the girls scrolling away idly on their phones, not stupid enough to not understand what they were doing.

He finally answers.

“I mean, it’s a male only dorm hall so... Shoko just kinda crashes. It’s, uh, it’s my place.” Satoru shakes his head. “Or, no, she does live here. Yeah. But like, don’t tell anyone or we could... get in trouble…” His voice trails off and cracks at the end. 

There is a burning sensation on his skin, the embarrassment of this situation was becoming too much for him to handle. He was already having one of the worst days of his life; one mishap after another, and an unexpected encounter with the lovely parasite that lives in his brain wasn’t helping.

It couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Cool, cool…” Suguru nods slowly, distant as anything as his gaze trails over Satoru’s desk and the shelves that were connected to it, rising to the ceiling. 

The higher level shelving was littered with a plethora of Digimon figures ranging from small to colossal. Some were hand painted, some even assembled with Lego, but most were expensive assortments manufactured by notable figure production companies.

I guess that makes a lot more sense now.

The lowest two shelves were reserved for books, all of similar caliber. The studies of Eratosthenes, wise words of Confucius, and other works that entailed the more iconic Greek philosophers were lined up neatly and sorted by author surnames.

He hasn’t changed a bit, but I really hadn’t expected him to either. Fuck, this is such a shitty situation to be in. This is so awkward-

Suguru’s thoughts are interrupted when he sees Satoru use one hand to pinch the back of the other; a habit he always had when unsettled. Suguru’s eyes soften momentarily only to harden again just as fast. 

Don’t give in to him… don’t.

He gives a little forced laugh and steps forward, giving Satoru a very light punch in the arm as he passes him, then sitting at Shoko’s miniature table desk with a chair attached—something she bought when she moved in—and starts going through his school bag. 

“Don’t worry about us, Satoru. We won’t be too loud, I know you don’t like big commotions in your space.”

Satoru looks at the spot where Suguru touched him and rubbed it. While the gesture was completely platonic, his hormones told him otherwise, and he yearned to get even closer. There was a time in his life where he would have considered that to be a love tap, but now it feels like a mockery that whatever God is making of him, subjecting him to fall deeper into despair than he already had.

When he noticed Suguru had been inspecting his figures, that fire under his skin burned hotter, a frown taking place on his chapped lips.

“Dude… you still like this kind of crap? C’mon, Satoru. We’re too old to be into cringy shit like this.”

These memories are becoming too frequent as of late.

Satoru really shouldn’t keep talking, but his need to initiate more conversation with Suguru was overpowering, and he would force himself to communicate even if he didn’t have a plan for what was going to come out.

“Right, right... um, why are you here exactly?”

Ah, did that come off as rude? I don’t want to sound upset... actually, I am upset. Upset that Suguru isn’t here hanging out with me and instead them. What could they possibly have that I don’t? Do they hang out often? Are they close? Do they talk about me? Oh God, they probably talk about me. They definitely talk about me.

Suguru opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Utahime who cuts him off. Not that she wanted to save Satoru’s ass from making a fool of himself—no, this was for her own sanity.

“It was my idea!” She announced. “Geto-san and I were going over the final assignment for one of our classes. It’s a pretty specific anatomical art project that we still have a few months for but, well, we just wanted to get a head start. Shoko said she’d be our model and told us to come back here and she’d pose for us… but changed her mind when we told her exactly what it entailed.”

“Well DUH.” Shoko voiced, wide eyed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t know it was going to be nude modeling. For you, yes of course, I think that would be fun and sexy. But not for Mr. Try Hard over here. Look at him, who is he trying to impress with all that? Sorry, but the 2000’s scene boy look is sooo over.”

Suguru flattens his lips at the obvious insults she was making as if he wasn’t right next to them.

“I’m not a scene boy. That’s a completely different type of style.”

Shoko sucks in air between her teeth.

“Is it though..?”

Satoru nods slowly and settles down at his desk, right across from where Suguru is. Now that they were facing back to back, Satoru had less to be anxious about. He turns on his PC and his desktop loads up with multiple icons of different games and programs on the home screen.

Suguru isn’t here to see me. He’s probably been too busy to talk anyways. Being an art major must be tiring.

He opens an internet browser and loads up the school mandated application he uses to write his papers, opening new tabs full of sources and taking one of his books off the shelves in front of him and flipping it to a page he had left a sticky note in.

Too busy to talk... for four years? I mean, I guess it could be longer. It’s normal for people to grow apart- well, we haven’t grown apart. Suguru is still my best friend, and when you get older, you just get more responsibilities and sometimes you need to take a step back from the things you love most. I have my academics, and he has his athletics. Maybe I’ll go to one of his competitions. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know I was cheering him on.

He starts typing away, fingers moving sporadically as he continues working on a paper that’s due at the end of the month. He’s already caught up and ahead of his other classes, so this is nothing to him. Academics always came naturally, and he’s glad he put his talents into one of his favorite fields.

And then maybe after that, we’ll catch up. I’ll take him to our favorite local sweets store back when we were in junior high, oshiruko is so good this time of year. Our hometown is only a little less than an hour out by train anyways, maybe visiting all our old spots will bring back nostalgia. Maybe we’ll hold hands too, it’ll be like a little date. 

He remembers he has a few emails that had been left unread, so he opens a new tab and surfs through them, reading appraisals from his professors about his own theories and debunking’s, and how he’s on a path better than most students. One of them even goes as far as to ask why he isn’t at a more prestigious university. The answer to that is something he couldn’t tell them. Well, not that he couldn’t, more that he just won’t. It isn’t that important anyways.

Should I just ask him to hang out? What’s stopping me?

“Can you please stop following me? It looks bad when you’re so close all the time… we’re too different now, Satoru. Grow up.”

...I’m sure Suguru has grown a little since then and feels bad about that day. He probably just wants me to ask him first! That way, things can go back to normal and he’ll know I’m not upset over that anymore! Why are so many of these memories popping up lately? I need to get myself under control. I’ll just ask him, it’s not that hard. Suguru is my best friend, it doesn’t mean anything if he says no. There’s always other chances.

Satoru spins his chair around, the corners of his lips curled up as subtly as possible with the barest pink tint painted on his cheeks.

“Suguru, do you want to-”

“I have to go.”

Suguru shot up so abruptly, that the baby desk he was sitting in falls backwards and he makes no attempt to pick it up. The only thing Satoru was able to make out was his phone that was gripped tightly in his hand, knuckles bright white and opened to a string of text messages.

Neither Shoko nor Utahime were able to ask where he was heading off to before he grabbed his shoes at the entrance and left, the door closing behind him.

“Huh.” Shoko spoke. “That was weird.”

Satoru’s tiny smile faltered and his eyes drooped under his goggles. He looked down into his lap and slowly turned his chair back around, positioning his fingers back on his keyboard but not moving them in the slightest. Just when he had a chance to reconnect with Suguru, the opportunity escaped him.

That’s fine. There will be other chances. We’re best friends, after all.

He continues his essay in silence.

Unfortunately for Satoru, if only he had been paying attention harder, he would have seen the look on Suguru’s face. He would have noticed how he paled a few shades, how he sucked in on his lower lip, how his pupils constricted and his eyebrows furrowed. He might have even noticed the very split second where Suguru paused at the door and looked back at him.

But it all happened way too quick, and for someone who considers himself to be a keen observer, he was unable to notice the distress of his best friend.

“You know that was pathetic, right?” Shoko insulted, flinging one of the dirty socks that was still on the futon over his chair, landing perfectly on top of his head. “And here I thought I was giving you a little push.”

Satoru takes the sock off his head and tosses it on his bed with the rest of his clothes.

“What? No it wasn’t. We just haven’t talked in a while, I’ll text him later.”

I won’t.

“Seriously, Gojo? You are so simple minded, it hurts to watch.” Utahime jabs. “You look like you got rejected by your crush at the middle school dance. Geto-san didn’t even give you the chance to finish your sentence. Is it that hard to understand he doesn’t want anything to do with you? People grow apart, it’s not that serious-”

Shoko clamped a hand over her mouth, but by then the damage had already been done.

Satoru slams both hands on his desk and stands impetuously with his chair squeaking against the floor, spinning around. He stares straight into Utahime’s eyes with a snarl so sharp it could cut diamond.

“What do you know?! Do you think I need any advice from the freeloaders who are trying to turn my room into Scissor City?!” He says through gritted teeth. “I don’t even know why I put up with you both when all you do is CONSTANTLY try to get on my last nerve! I KNOW what it looks like with me and Suguru, but you guys aren’t seeing the bigger picture here. I guarantee you that within a week, he’ll come back here, and it won’t be to see either of you. It’ll be to- I don’t know! I don’t fucking know! I just-”

I want him to see me. I want him to see me before I can no longer see him.

Suguru being in his room had made him completely forget about his prognosis from this morning. As out of touch as he is, Satoru knows there are more things to be upset about right now than his only two “friends” bashing on his delusions. He collapses back down in his chair and slumps low, long legs spread and bent at the knees. His hands hang in his lap he lets the weight of his head fall lazily to the side.

“Nevermind.” He mumbles. “Just… no one other than you two here from now on, no matter who it is.”

It was not as if an aggressive response from Satoru wasn’t anticipated, but they weren’t expecting him to blow like a steam kettle only to simmer out right after the heat cooled. As much as the girls had been known to tease him, they knew they took it too far this time. They had always known Suguru was a sensitive topic, but they never knew exactly what their history entailed, and they certainly did not realize that Satoru could get this bitter about it.

Shoko tugged on Utahime’s shirt and used her head to gesture at the defeated boy across from them. Together, they got off the futon and stood on either side of him, bending down to be at facial level with him. They began to poke his cheeks, waiting for him to crack a smile.

“Sorry.”

“We’re sorry.”

“We didn’t mean it.”

“Want a kiss from two pretty girls?”

Satoru swats their fingers away from his face and fights himself from reacting, but the last thing he needed was to push them away. As much as he pretended he didn’t care, being on his own was not his favorite thing in the world, and he was already lonely enough with the looming threat of his eventual blindness getting closer each day.

“Cut it out, I’m not in the mood.”

Shoko pecks his cheek anyways, followed by another from Utahime. Both of them were giggling and trying to pry a laugh out of him.

“You’re lucky I’m even touching you.” Utahime tried to goad him with another poke to his cheeks. “One day you’ll be begging us for a biiiiig hug.”

“We’re just speaking the truth,” Shoko added. “That’s what friends are for anyways, right?”

Satoru rolls his eyes and puts his hands on both their foreheads, pushing them back.

“Okay, okay, whatever, are you two even listening to me? This is serious. It’s fine if you think I’m crazy, you’re not in my shoes and you don’t know how much Suguru means to me, so you wouldn’t get it... and I wouldn’t call you guys my friends.”

“Booooooo.” Shoko jeers. “What are you, a tsundere? You need to stop reading so much manga."

“Eugh, don’t call me that. And no, I will not.” He taps the arm of his desk and huffs air from his nose. “I’ll forgive you if you go out and get me dinner. But I only want it if Utahime pays for it.”

“What?! No way!” Utahime protests. “Why me?! You should be charging Shoko! She’s the charity case here!"

“Charity case... how cruel.” Shoko sighs dramatically.

The two bicker back and forth out the door on who would pay for Satoru’s meal while he turns in his chair with a tiny chuckle, then fading as the door closes, leaving him alone. He shuts off his PC, no longer having the motivation to continue his paper and stares up at his shelves, reaching up and pulling out a thick black trading card binder that rests against the back.

He flips through the collection, knowing he could sell some of these cards for quite the hefty price, but preferring to hold the memories of his childhood in his hands. He turns the binder to the last page, empty except for one sleeve holding a hand drawn SkullGreymon with the initials “GS” at the bottom. He rubs his thumb over it, pressing down lightly as if connecting with the plastic.

Strange. I don’t remember making that.

10:05pm

The heavy downpour makes his eyeliner run, but the moon above seems indifferent to his plight, refusing to shine down on him and instead blocked by thick clouds. Temperatures are below freezing outside, and the walk up this apartment staircase fills him with unease with each new step on flooded grounds. Goosebumps are raised high on his arms, and he knows it’s his fault for not wearing a heavy enough coat.

Suguru now stands outside the door he has grown used to seeing for the past five years. He stares at the peeling orange paint on the metal, appearing impassive and eyes almost catatonic as thunder claps behind him. He raises his hand to knock but pauses, gripping his fist and instead resting his forehead against the door. 

It’s not too late to turn around. I’ll say I couldn’t find a taxi in the weather.

He thinks of Satoru—the only person who doesn’t see him for what he truly is. Is that why he finds it so hard to talk to him? Is he really afraid of severance with the last thing chaining him down to what he once was? Satoru’s ignorance is blissful, and Suguru knows that if he bothers to let him in, that final bit of his past self is gone for good, and whatever relationship he’s hanging on the edge of is lost.

Heavy steps sound from behind the door and Suguru backs up, realizing his fate for the night has already been decided. The handle jimmies aggressively before pulling open, and Suguru keeps his eyes on anywhere but the owner of the residence.

Leaning against the door frame now is a shirtless man with a physique that most men dream of owning, and a scar decorating the right corner of his lips. He eyes Suguru up and down, taking note of his hesitation, of his reluctance to get closer, and of his marks that have yet to fully heal.

“You comin’ in or what?”

Suguru nods and lets himself in without a word exchanged. He slips off his wet shoes and steps past the entryway, standing off to the side and waiting patiently for the home owner to close the door.

“Sorry for being late,” He apologizes, gaze always drawn to the trophy case by the door every time he returns. “It was hard to get a ride in this weather.”

The man lets out a yawn, stretching lazily.

“S’fine.”

The door closes and Suguru can hear it lock behind him as the man walks off into the bathroom, white drawstring pants low on his waist and hanging at his v-line. He comes back with a few towels, tossing them to Suguru who caught them against his chest before they could slide down his body.

“Take a shower, I’ve got everything ready for you in there.” He smirks. “Felt like bein’ generous tonight.”

That smirk weighs down on Suguru, and he makes his way into the bathroom where he would discard his sopping wet clothing and take a not-so relaxing shower. The floor tiles are grimy, the light fixture above the sink has one bulb out, and the items he would need for prep were sitting on the shower stool.

“Thank you, Coach.”

Strong arms wrap around his waist to hold him in place and Suguru stiffens, not tolerant of his touch no matter how many times he’s experienced it. The man buries his face into his neck and rocks his hips from side to side in a little dance, giving a kiss on the back of his neck—light stubble meeting damp skin.

“I told you, when we’re alone, you can call me Toji.”

Chapter Text

01-13-25

5:17pm

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

He is stagnant, an honorable exemplar of grace. His hair was tightly brushed without a single bump and tied up in a high bun, with a singular bang hanging off the left side. The palms of his hands are dusted in chalk like a powdered confection from previously swinging the parallel bars. Residue sprinkles off with each movement while splattering his singlet in speckles, noticeable from its inky color. 

Suguru feels naked without his piercings, stripped of the small armor they give him. The only ones he’s managed to keep are his gauges, which he barely convinced his coach wouldn’t get in the way. The rest had to go, though he still has the midline bar in his tongue, safely hidden where no one can see. He catches himself rubbing it against the back of his teeth—a bad habit he should probably break before he cracks one, but it helps calm his nerves, and right now, that’s what matters most.

He raises his shoulders into an arm circle, loosening his joints and getting the blood flowing before he begins his floor routine. The sound of his teammates doing the pommel horse and rings on the other end of the gym disturbs him, and Suguru does his best to not acknowledge how their stares burn into his back. Their snide comments and crudeness will not keep him glued to the mat.

From start to end of his performance, he must display a mastery of the sport with captivating artistry. His choreography must be unique and flow seamlessly, utilizing the entire floor area, becoming a vision of what others should aspire to be.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

Suguru starts off strong, feet slap against the floor, then he launches into a round-off, a quick back handspring, and rises into a double layout, body unfolding like a bow unstrung. He lands deep, steady, breath held for a single heartbeat before straightening to full height. At the end of his mat, he turns to start again, then moving into a front handspring into a layout, finishing with a double full twist that unspools midair like a ribbon. He lands upright, perfectly centered, chest open to no one watching. He salutes. Calm, composed, and quietly triumphant.

The sweat that has accumulated from his forehead and under his armpits is starting to get to him after the forty-five minute mark of his floor practice. He decamps from the mat over to his water, raising the rim on his lips and tilting his head back as he swallows the refreshing quench of room temperature liquid.

His teammates were also mid break from where they were, laughing and joking around as friends would do.

He listens.

“Do you think he ever feels bad for taking the spot of someone who actually deserves to be on the team? I mean, he kills it on the floor but that’s kind of all he’s got going on.”

“No, I’ve seen him do vault and parallels too. His balance is great, but he relies on momentum and agility and less strength. If we had a women’s team, he’d be better off on that one.”

“Haha, yeah. Coach favors him like crazy. There must be some sort of nepotism going on. Probably related.”

“That’s what I think too. I’ve seen him get in Coach’s car after meets.”

Suguru decides that’s enough listening for now. He clicks out wireless earbuds he was keeping next to his water bottle, popping them in his ears to drown out their slander. From his phone, he picks a playlist at random, and listens to anything that can keep his mind off the truth they speak.

Suguru’s body was perfectly built for the skills he had yet to accomplish. Still, he can never manage to move up in qualifications, showing up to meets but only being allowed to perform what he’s proficient in. Which is how it should be, right? But Suguru doesn’t want that. 

Suguru wants to be able to outshine his peers the way they always leave him in their shadows. He wants to be just as good—no, he wants to be better than what they have to offer. He knows he has the capability, but every time he grips those pommels or swings from those rings, a certain someone is always watching him. Suguru knows if he had learnt to do them before meeting their coach, he would have never had this problem.

“Suguru, that was sick, dude! Where did you learn to do that?!”

“YouTube, duh. My mom said I can go to a real gymnastics camp in a few summers once we save up, she said the guy coaching was in the olympics or something. I’ll finally have the equipment to do all the cooler shit. When I come back, I’ll be a totally different person.”

He closes his eyes and his heart rate slows, practice is almost over and his adrenaline rush has begun to die down.

Satoru… you have been on my mind far too much lately. Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?

Suguru’s awkward encounter with his childhood best friend had been weighing on his mind like a cinder block sinking him to the bottom of the Pacific. That built up resentment he had been harboring for the past four years had come back at him full throttle, and he wasn’t expecting it to stray around for more than a few hours.

Well, it wasn’t resentment, because Suguru didn’t exactly hate Satoru, he just wanted him as far away as possible on the other side of the planet without any contact or placement in his life. It was fairly a rare occurrence when he thought about him, maybe… once every few months? Nothing serious, and nothing prompted either. There were days where he would just pop up in his head. A smile, an adjustment of his goggles, anything really.

Satoru is the only tie to his peaceful life before it all went to shit. It’s not fair, it never was. While Suguru had to struggle to fight for what he’s good at, to find his individuality, Satoru was always one step ahead—gifted with an academically inclined mind that could outsmart the most renowned mathematicians. He was lucky from the get go, being born into a high class family and holding a naivety to the world’s cruelty that Suguru wished he still had the fortune of having. 

If Satoru finds out what happened to change him so drastically-

If Satoru finds out what he does behind closed doors-

If Satoru finds out how he spends his nights-

All of what he has built up will crumble into ash, leaving behind willful ignorance and a nasty erasure in its path. Suguru cannot have that. Under no circumstances can Suguru have that, and if shutting Satoru out of his life is what he has to do to protect himself, then so be it.

As much as Suguru wants to be distant, as much as Suguru pretends he doesn’t care, the last thing he wants is for Satoru to hate him. So to prevent that, he would have to convince his mind of bitterness; that he does not need Gojo Satoru in his life.

After a ten minute break, Suguru takes out the earbuds and steps back up to the mat, readying himself to do one final set to try and get his mind off things. In the corner of his eye, he sees his coach. Deep and sunken eyes pierce him like laser alignment through a pane of glass, and Suguru hesitates.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

He raises his arms in that circle motion he has come so used to before performing, and he runs into another routine. Starting from a round off and moving into a back handspring, his coordination fails him under pressure, and his face meets the mat before his hands could. 

The smack of Suguru’s faceplant reverberates loudly while his teammates turn to see the cause of the sound, only to see him slowly crunching up onto his knees and holding his nose. His eyes are cinched tight as blood drips between his fingers.

“Oh shit, is he okay?”

“Dude I don’t know, he’s always looking for attention from Fushiguro. Notice how he only fucked up when he showed up? It’s like he wants to be coddled or something.”

Suguru sucks in a honed breath and holds back making any sort of obvious noise at the pain. He wants to get up and pretend he doesn’t feel such a searing hot affliction around his throbbing nose, the metallic taste of his own blood on his tongue. A headache had come on, booming and assaulting his frontal lobe, but it wasn’t from the contact he made with the ground. Instead, it came from the sound of the almost silent footsteps getting closer to him, only stopping until they were right beside his kneeling frame.

A hand is placed on his shoulder and Toji crouches down, using the other to hold Suguru’s chin up gently; a gesture that to others would seem akin to checking on his well being, but is actually forced eye contact to remind him of their nature.

“Are you alright? Is it broken?” His voice shows no genuine concern, but he wasn’t trying to fake it either.

Suguru only shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak coherently without sounding like a mumbling mess. He can’t even be upset with his coach, his actions are what caused this injury in the first place. He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have let his concentration falter. He did it to himself.

Even after all this time, he still isn’t good enough.

Suguru can smell the cheap cologne and the coffee on his breath as they overload his senses. He hates himself for wanting to be nurtured by him, unconsciously leaning closer. The hand on his chin that he hates is the same hand he wants to stroke his cheek and rub his back.

Toji notices this and rolls his eyes, releasing him and getting back to his feet. He shoots a glare up at the rest of the team.

“The hell you boys so nosey about? Hit the showers.” He gives a thumb point to the locker rooms, and the team exchanges knowing looks before trudging off, jostling each other in horse play.

Even if it was just for a second, the attention Toji took away from him was all Suguru needed to snap out of the nasty trance he was in. Of all times, he was thinking about that now? He is already disgusted with himself enough as is, he really doesn’t need to dig himself deeper in the grave he dug four years ago. Suguru takes a couple of breaths before finally finding his voice, pulling away from his coach’s calloused fingers and standing.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters. He does his best to hold any more blood as it seeps between his fingers like a stream behind a dam, dripping onto the mat in a crimson puddle. “I lost my focus.”

Suguru’s eyes focused on the locker room doors where his teammates currently reside. Would it matter if he went in there after being the center of attention in the worst way possible? Would it matter if none of them addressed him and went on with their colloquy? Would it matter if they avoided his presence as if he were a spider in the corner? No, he doesn’t think so. Anything would be better than getting sucked into a conversation about his state of being right now. He was fine. Everything was fine and he didn't need to be given any sort of special attention.

Toji’s arms cross and he shifts his weight to his other leg, eyeing the mess of blood that was slowly staining the blue mat. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You gonna clean that up or should I? I don’t like my gym to look as shitty as the rest of this place.” He clicks his tongue, looks around to make sure they're truly alone, and then looks back at Suguru with a little curve to his lips. “But I’m used to cleaning you up when you get messy.”

Toji reaches his hand out and gives Suguru a little tap on his hip, but as usual, he is met with nothing but a stone cold wall and no response to his advances. His smirk dissipates and he puts his hands in the pockets of his pants, rolling his head around.

“Sheesh, it was a joke. You know, the whole distant thing was cute when you were younger, but it loses its touch after a while. You should try giving me a smile every once in a while.”

“If you want a smile so much then maybe you should ask your wife for one.”

Suguru regretted those words the moment they spat from his mouth. Not only did he take up a venomous kind of tone that he would only use with a guy who would get too handsy with him, but he broke a strict rule when it came to his relationship with his coach: Absolutely zero mention of his family, even if he is no longer allowed in a one hundred yard radius of them.

He attempts at hiding any sign that he wanted to backtrack on himself, as nature always knows a predator can smell fear. The sweat that had accumulated on the back of his neck from practice had increased tenfold, and it was colder than it should have been, like prickles of ice sliding down his skin and absorbing into his singlet.

Fuck. Today was supposed to be a no contact day. I was going to see King Gnu tonight with-

But his thoughts were interrupted by the staredown he was being given.

Toji’s chilling glower remained scanning him, but he couldn’t read the look he was being met with. Annoyance? Anger? Something worse? The possibilities were endless, but Suguru couldn’t guess no matter how long they stood before each other unmoving.

Then, he heard a small rumble from his chest. Toji’s shoulders were shaking lightly and he threw his head back in a roar. He was laughing. The sound of his boisterous amusement echoed off the walls of the gym and bounced back at the center where they stood. This was one of those moments where Suguru really couldn’t get a read on him, not that he bothered to do so too often. With the type of man he was, it really wasn’t worth wanting to know what else went on in his head.

Suguru took a step back, his expression that of a lone doe in a forest who just heard a gunshot. Toji started to calm down and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Ah fuck, you actually got me there. That was a good one. You’re getting bolder with me every day, kid. Coach is proud of you. See, I knew I was rubbing off on you in more ways than one.”

What a disgusting way to put it.

“But, uh,” he tilts his head towards the direction of the locker room. “You know the rules. Do me a favor by taking a nice long shower and come to my office when you’re done, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Right now, there are two scenarios playing out in Suguru’s head.

In the first one, Suguru grabs Toji by the shoulders and rams his forehead into his nose with enough force until a satisfying snap is heard, only then would the blood on the mat be a mixture from both of their nostrils. Toji would stumble back and cup his face in anguish, but before he could retaliate, Suguru lunges onto him, sending them both flying to the ground as he claws at whatever he can like a wild animal. He would lock his own hands together, intertwining his fingers and raise them high above his head and repeatedly bring them clobbering down on his face, only deepening the injury until he can hear him gurgling on clots. His nail polish would chip and the black would be replaced with a deep red that would stain his fingers until he scrubbed them raw. He would only cease when Toji stopped struggling and succumbed to drowning in his own cruor. After that, he would take a shower and wait for one of his teammates to find the body that he wouldn’t even bother to dispose of.

In the second one, Suguru drops to his knees and pulls down Toji’s sweats with his teeth, then resting his chin on his elbows as he raises his ass in the air doggy style. Toji would get behind him quickly and rip his singlet to expose the dark puckered hole that Suguru had always kept hairless how he preferred. Suguru would bite into his forearm as Toji spat on his hand, using only that to lubricate himself and ram into him with no preparation, leaving him to feel the burn of a thousand hot coals and the seething pain of improper pacing. There would be no verbal consent of what would happen next, and Suguru’s mind would numb as his own cock would stay soft and bounce from the recoil. In the end, Toji would leave him lying there filled to the brim with ejaculation and his own sorrows. He would go to sleep there and never wake up.

Instead, Suguru nods while still clutching his nose and walks off in the direction of the locker room.

There were little scarlet droplets following him as he trekked across the gym, the sound of his footsteps becoming more faint as he reached the opposite side. Pushing open the locker room door, he was met with the faces of his teammates who turned away from him the moment he came into view—some who have seen him in more compromising positions, and they had no right to shame. 

At his locker, Suguru grabs a hand towel he would typically use for wiping away sweat and holds it to his nose. He makes his way to one of the toilet stalls and takes some toilet paper from the rolls sitting on the tank and plugs both nostrils with it. He keeps his head level to not swallow any more blood as he relies on breathing out of his mouth. He takes away the hand towel and attempts to wipe off whatever remnants remain on his face without using a mirror to do it in. Going back to his locker, he rids himself of his apparel with ease and strides to the showers without bothering to wrap a towel around himself. 

The showers were always either too hot or too cold for anyone’s liking. Today it was frigid, almost to the point of numbing skin. Suguru welcomed the feeling, allowing the water to hit his face and stream down his chest and dripping off the piercings on his nipples, another thing he was lucky he could hide with extra padding built into his singlet. The pressure spouting from the shower head gave him some form of relief for the headache he had. His hair, now let down, was soaked and flattened to his head and neck, stuck in a mess as it hung in his face and concealed his view. Suguru watched the brown diluted color of his blood make circles around his feet before following the flow of water to the drain.

I broke a rule today. I haven’t done that in a while.

There are hair and body wash dispensers on the wall lined next to each shower station, grimy at the bottom with product leaking down the wall and leaving sticky puddles behind its trail. Suguru pumps out more shampoo than he needs and smears it on top of his head, lathering the thick foam into his scalp. His nimble fingers delicately massage all the knots as he reminds himself of the rules of their arrangement, listing them off like an altar boy reciting prayers.

Rule 1: Come when called. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, where I am, or what time of day.

The blood that was coating his chin and nostrils was finally dissolving and washing away in diluted rivulets, and his hands had been fully cleansed of the evidence of his mistake that made him look so pathetic while he tried to remain proud.

Rule 2: We aren’t mutually exclusive to one another. I’m free to see whoever I want, as long as we both get tested frequently.

He takes the time to scrub himself with soap in all the places he could reach without bending over, letting his eyes slip shut. Slowly, the water started to burn hot as it usually would with its faulty piping and temperament, and Suguru made no attempt to fix it.

Rule 3: Never bring up his family. Not his son who barely knows him, not his relatives who shun him, and especially not his wife and the separation.

Suguru scrunches his nose and tightens his eyelids.

I fucked that up badly. Last time I asked him about his son-

His lips curl into a frown and he presses his head forward, touching the cool whitewash tiles. He squeezes his legs together and crouches down into a tight squat, letting the suds wash off his back on their own. He slicks the soap between his fingers and scrubs it into his underarms. The water pressure had weakened momentarily only to come back down hitting him heavier than before and poking into his back like acupuncture.

And rule four goes without saying... no one knows about us. It wouldn’t end well for anyone if we got found out.

By now the pain had dissipated, but he knew it would come back with an ache in the morning. Maybe his senses were now drowned out by the steam rolling over him and seeping into his throat, the feeling reminiscent of when he was a boy and would sit over boiling water to alleviate his sinuses.

“Suguru, I’ll take you to Tateyama when we get bigger. Then, neither of us will ever get sick like this. I’ll always take care of you, I promise.”

He stood abruptly, cranking the faucet to the left and shutting down the water in an instant. He plucked the now dampened ends of the toilet paper that was in his nose, dropping them in little splats on top of the drain. His pupils pinpointed as he stared straight ahead at the wall, imagining the innocent smile of a child in front of him.

Suguru clenches his fists. 

“Liar. You weren’t there for me when I needed you.”

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

His knuckles unclench, and his eyes relax again into their usual dullness. Suguru rolls his head back and wrings his hair out, grip starting at the roots and roping down to the end strands, giving them a good squeeze until they are no longer sleek against his skin. He doesn’t waste any more time procrastinating his visit to his coach’s office and goes back to his locker, wet footsteps trailing behind him.

Suguru starts with his hair again, squeezing any remaining moisture until damp and giving his body a quick rub down, not caring how thorough. He pulls joggers out of his locker that were thrown in there without care and a western 80’s band tee that was just slightly oversized on him, as he preferred to dress comfortably after a long practice. Dressing himself, some water that remained on his back made little wet prints that absorbed into the fabric of his clothes. 

He crossed the lockers to sinks that were under a long mirror, stretching along the entire wall. In his pocket, he has a plastic pill organizer where he sorts his piercings while at practice; a hack he made for himself in high school when wanting to swap out styles.

Suguru takes out the two rings he keeps in his nose out of one of the plastic squares, and pauses when he raises them to his face. His nose was still swollen, and he’s incredibly cautious when looping them back in the holes. Once succeeded, he moved on to the rest. From his ears, lips, and eyebrows, he is once again comfortable in his own skin. He runs the tip of his tongue over his snakebites, a pout apparent on his features.

I need to find a way to get out of taking these out so frequently. I don’t want to get an infection, and it’s a bitch to put them back in.

He puts the pill organizer back in his locker and ignores his singlet and everything else he had worn, deciding he’ll come back tomorrow and wash it. Either that, or he keeps wearing the same dirty uniform at the next practice and prays he doesn’t get a yeast infection.

Suguru exhales softly as he pushes through the locker room doors. On his way to see Toji, he steadies himself, slipping on that practiced mask of indifference he always wears around him. Sometimes if he doesn’t react, his coach loses interest sooner or later. Not that it would matter much tonight, he hadn’t exactly cleaned up well enough for things to go past third base anyway.

Suguru doesn’t knock when he enters. He sits down in the only other chair in the room besides the one behind a large wooden desk with an open front for leg extension. He avoids looking at his coach directly and focuses on the ground, propping one elbow on the arm of his chair and resting his chin in hand, counting the endless ticking of the wall clock.

Along the walls are plaques and certificates of achievement, all in the name of Fushiguro Toji. The man himself sits behind his desk, busy going over guidelines for finals, writing up routines and scheduling who will be performing what event at the next competition, and scrolling through his email and deleting many unopened messages. He doesn’t look at Suguru once, even though they both know damn well what happens next.

“I’ve gone over it.” His raspy voice cuts through, but Suguru shows no change in behavior. Toji leans back more in his chair and chews on his inner cheek, moistening his lips with saliva. “It wasn’t as funny as I thought.”

Great. Just great.

Suguru closes his eyes and scenes play in his head—a roll of film spilling out into nothingness. They’re his own first person perspective of being face down in bed sheets, biting into pillows, cheeks pressed into walls, fingers hooked around into his mouth and stabbing into the back of his throat while tears welled and snot dripped-

When his eyes reopen, Toji is staring back with a nasty fire behind those dark blue voids; at least that was how they always appeared to him. Every time he locked onto them, he was pulled into an inescapable abyss that would eventually engulf him and drag him far below the surface. The pressure was lung crushing, and Suguru’s organs were better off imploding than having to endure any more nauseating contact that leaves him embarrassingly desperate and craving for reassurance in the end.

Toji opens one of the desk drawers, pulling out a container that was shaped like a hockey puck. He flicks up half the lid and pinches the black sand-like texture between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it, slipping it in his mouth and rubbing it between his upper lip and gums. While doing so, he uses his other hand to unhook his belt buckle, positioning his legs in a man spread. He pats his inner thigh and gives it a little grip in a gesture that says “come and get it.”

Slowly, maintaining his nonchalance, Suguru gets up from his chair, feet weighing him down from heavy metal chains while he forces himself forward. Kneeling under the desk always made him feel a bit cramped from his height, but it was something he had grown accustomed to.

Suguru intertwines a hand with the one Toji had on his thigh and gives it a squeeze, pressing his cheek against his groin and rubbing it as he places tiny kisses on his fingertips. Soon enough, he is sucking on those digits, wetting them and occasionally nibbling while something pokes against his face.

Toji rests his head back as the familiar sensation of Suguru’s lips, but he was growing impatient and in no mood to entertain anything sweet and slow. He runs his free hand over the top of Suguru’s head, smoothing over the dampened hairs. The touch is gentle, but more as if he was comforting a pet than anything.

“Now put it to good use.” The hand that was holding Suguru’s hair let go and slid down the waistband of his boxers, freeing up the tension in them. “No breaks until I come. Then, you’ll do it again. I wanna see some tears too.”

The scent of his musk is overwhelming, and Suguru sometimes wished he had the decency to wash up as much as he did before they got intimate. Then again, at some point—he has no idea when—it became soothing for him; an aroma he was far too used to even if the thought of it gave him migraines every now and again. Suguru stares at it hypnotically, starting with a kitten lick and a kiss on the tip before pulling back again.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

7:08pm

The door bursts open and slams shut in the same second. Suguru kicks off his shoes, leaving them scattered where they land, too tired to bother with putting them away. The noise startles someone at the desk, who half-rises before sighing in irritation and sinking back into his chair. Through the mirror in front of him, he watches Suguru collapse onto his bed, face buried in the pillow, body motionless like he’s given up on moving altogether.

There are copious amounts of posters all over the room, ranging from mainly Japanese and American rock bands. Covering any other parts of the wall are industry related art pieces and printed photos of Suguru at parties with his roommate and other friends. Hanging from a ceiling over his bed is a dream catcher with a polished purple fluorite stone tied in the center. There are various leather jackets messily thrown on a rack by the door and below it are two skateboards, one with wheels much more worn than the other.

“So I’m guessing you’re bailing on me tonight?” His roommate spun his chair around while he tightened one of his spiked pigtails.

“Fuck off, Choso.” Suguru’s voice was muffled.

Kamo Choso was who Suguru currently considered to be his closest friend, meeting at a party in their freshmen year and waking up with massive hangovers out on the track field. Choso was fully naked save for his boxers and Suguru was wearing double layers in his own clothes along with Choso’s. What happened that night and how they ended up like that was a mystery, but it tied them together with similar interests and hobbies, and that put them where they are currently.

While it would be more appropriate for most to refer to Choso by his surname, his hatred for his father left him with his preference to be called by his first name instead.

“...why don’t you just report him? This shit is never going to get any better if you don’t-”

Suguru springs up from his bed and throws the closest thing to him; a half empty plastic water bottle, which hits Choso square on his forehead and lands on the ground. Choso squinted on impact and threw a pen off his desk back at Suguru.

“Seriously? I just finished getting ready. Can you not smudge it?” Choso exhorts, gesturing to the H shaped gothic makeup he had painted onto his face. He stands from his desk in a stretch, not bothering to clean it up and takes two concert tickets out of his pocket. He hovers over Suguru and waves them all over his ear. “Come on, I’m not gonna leave you here so you can call someone over to fuck. Stop being a slut and let’s go.”

Choso never bothered beating around the bush when it came to telling Suguru how he felt about his promiscuous activities. Of course, he understood the basis of it; the feeling of wanting to gain control back of one’s own body—but that doesn’t mean he had to support it. It was an unhealthy coping mechanism and they both knew that, but Choso was never the type of friend to be soft with him, so they were never able to have any real heart to heart. Then again, Suguru’s trust with him was still plain as day since he was the only person who knew of his plight.

Confiding in Choso was considered breaking rule four, but Suguru was a hard one to tame and that went without saying. As long as his coach or anyone else never finds out, Suguru decided it wouldn’t be a problem.

Suguru smacked Choso’s hands out of his face, flipping him the bird while he fell back down to continue suffocating himself in his pillow.

“At least I actually fuck. When’s the last time you’ve gotten laid? Just because you haven’t gotten your dick wet in God knows how long, doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.”

Choso’s face glows bright red and he straightens up, just as he usually does when it comes to any talk about his sex life. No, he did not get action very often, and he only had himself to blame for it. He was naturally stiff around girls and never knew how to start conversation, most of his luck being at raves and clubs in back alleys with women who had a turn on for his standoff-ish attitude and hardcore exotic appearance.

“That- You know what- I-” Choso struggles to get a single sentence out without stumbling over his words. “I’m working on it. There’s this- There’s a girl I’m into right now, so I’m not looking for a fling.” He puts a hand on the back of his neck and rubs it, trying to cool down the still growing heat. 

Suguru almost laughed. Choso in an actual relationship? That was unheard of. Then again, he really wasn’t one to comment on that. 

“Then ask her. I’m sure she’s dying to see you.” Suguru responded, full of unnoticed sarcasm.

“You think so?” Choso asked, fiddling the tickets in his hand and taking out his phone. “I don’t know if this is her scene… couldn’t hurt to try though.”

Taking his sweet time opening his contact list, Choso grabs one of the thick leather jackets off the coat rack, and opens the door. He pauses, sunken eyes falling back on Suguru before exiting, mumbling something that sounded like “be safe.”

“Tsukumo-san, are you free tonight?” was all Suguru heard as Choso got further and further away from their room.

Finally, he was alone.

Suguru turns to lay on his back and stares at the ceiling with his arm draped over his eyes, hoping that would somehow block out the world and give him peace—a moment to himself. Something so simple that was rarely ever granted, and it was only ever taken away at his expense. Maybe Choso was right. Maybe he didn’t have to call someone tonight. He could put in some earbuds, watch a movie, sit out for a relaxing smoke on the balcony…

Or, no, perhaps not.

Suguru opens his phone and shoots a text.

[7:18pm]

Come over.

He didn’t feel like playing any games. He wasn’t in the mood to sweet talk anyone. If the guy found his text to be demanding or snappy, he would simply find someone else. Suguru’s phone vibrated anyways, a response coming quicker than he thought it would.

[7:19pm]

Larue: omw ;) need me to bring anything?

Suguru rolls his eyes.

“A gun.” he says to himself, instead responding just as hastily.

[7:19pm]

Condoms. I have lube.

His phone vibrates again but he doesn’t bother to read the message. He already got the ball rolling, no need to watch how far it goes. He flips over again and pulls his sheets over him and curls up, heart feeling heavy in his chest. For a brief moment, something akin to regret washes over him. That nagging feeling in the back of his mind telling him he needed to stop what he was doing would grow louder each time, and he would always quiet it by giving into temptation.

“Oh, you need my help now? After pushing me away all this time? Nice try, you can figure it out on your own. Call someone who cares.”

Suguru sits up abruptly and rubs his eyes.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.